To be Named
by musubi7
Summary: Before a country can be independent, it must be Named by its parent country. Moments before America is declared independent.


**Musubi's Fried Rice Corner**

Here's the edited version of my fic with the same title. It's longer now and, I think, a lot better. Props to saramon for beta'ing this.

If you're curious about country names: why a Name is capitalized and why it's such a big deal in this fic, check out my journal here! musubi7[dot]livejournal[dot]com. So...without further ado, here's Independence v2.0! I wasn't sure which was appropriate, creating a new story or adding a new chapter to the first Independence, so I went ahead and made a new story. If this isn't kosher, sorry to all!

Comments make me happy too....*entices reviewers with cheeseburgers*

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_1. Speak When You Should Be Silent_

"Say my Name!" Alfred screams, voice rough and low, barely audible over the rain's howl. He'd been screaming for the better part of the day to his boss and troops. It's a wonder that as the afternoon sun fell to twilight (though it was impossible to tell in _this_ weather, but somehow he just _knew_) that the boy could still utter a word.

.

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_2. Breathe Now, You Might Not Get Another Chance_

Despite the pleas, Arthur keeps his silence. His eyes fix on the boy before him, jaw set. A triple cut on his cheek throbs and burns; a soft stream of blood rolls down his cheek. His body is tired, worn, a steady pounding everywhere. The child believes he has won, believes he has defeated the greatest army in the world.

Arthur swallows, throat enflamed, and breathes.

It looks like he has.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

.

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_3. Piercing Realization_

The metal tip of the bayonet grazes Arthur's jugular and he thinks - only for a moment - that the child would pierce his throat. When had this happened? When had this boy learnt such harshness? When had he learnt to hold a rifle this way? When had he learnt the difference between brushing the skin and cleaving a vein?

Surely the older nation wasn't absent that long. He would have seen such staggering changes. He would have seen it and endedit. He would have—

It hits him then, drives a sharpened pole through his heart.

Alfred is no longer a child.

_.  
_

_._

_.  
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_4. Screaming Upon Deaf Ears_

"Say it!" The voice is louder, albeit jagged and cracking at the last moment. Alfred's body is shaking, frustrated with the stubborn old man before of him. This war should have ended hours ago. He should be inside singing tunes, drinking merrily among his people. He shouldn't be outside, in the rain, in the mud, screaming—though his voice is long gone—at a man too proud (stupid) to admit defeat from his younger brother.

"I've won, can't you see? You're trapped here. France captured your fleet. The whole city was burning before the rains came. You're done, Arthur! You're done!" His voice wavers, tired. His body slumps under gravity's tug, but he keeps the rifle poised, the bayonet fixed on the older man's throat.

Yet Arthur Kirkland remains silent.

Rage jolts through the young man's veins; he pulls the rifle back. Widened eyes infuriated at his brother's continued silence.

"Why do you deny me the one thing I want?" Jesus Christ, that probably ripped his throat in two. He swallows a cough. Why did the old man have to be so goddamn stubborn?  
.

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_5. Words from Beyond Are Disregarded by the Living_

"You don't even know what you want, kid," Arthur finally speaks, provoked by his younger brother's words. "Do you even understand the weight of what you ask?"

"Of course I do!" Alfred spits. "I wouldn't be fighting you if I didn't."

"I don't think you do," Arthur says evenly, feeling his old battle wounds flare against the heavy uniform. Each scar is a reminder of his soldiers his _people_, the very essence of his soul. Sons of England dead and lost, alliances forged and broken, wars fought for decades too long...

This is only Alfred's second war, first really as the Seven Years War was _England's,_ only temporarily fought on this new land (the boy had fought exceptionally better than expected, but Arthur would never admit it aloud). Alfred dose not have the scars of war, the scars of revolution, the scars of brutality and change.

"Let me be free!" is the young man's plea.

"Free?" Arthur only scoffs, "I think you know not the weight of your words."

Alfred bites his lip, trying to keep some remark down and grips the rifle tighter, white knuckled.

"Once I say your Name, that's it!" Arthur says nonchalantly, "You'll be independent. I won't be able— nor will I be particularly inclined— to help you should you get into trouble."

Alfred's expression loosens and the rifle dips an inch. The young Unnamed listens.

"Can you imagine fighting a war on your own, without eliciting the aid of Frenchmen? Your infrastructure is too weak, your men too undisciplined. You are surrounded by enemies. Surely your forces will collapse under the Spanish. What will happen to your people should they grow tired of their land? What will you do if France decides to--yes, Alfred, your allies can turn on you--take your capitol?"

Alfred's face when Arthur suggests France's betrayal is evidence that the child is not ready to be on his own. Arthur takes a breath, lowers his eyes, attempting to push the thought of his brother—his own flesh and blood—dead from the Spaniard's bloodlust or victim to the mad Frenchman. He tries to cast the spell from his mind, but it sits, mulling and rotting and destroying his resolve.

"Are you ready for that?"  
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_6. Should the Second Generation Breakaway, Be Sure to Leave a Return Address_

He lets the older Nation's words settle. They are like calm sedatives, urging him to put his gun down and return to England. They are words wanting to turn the clock backwards. To a time of piggyback rides through Jamestown. To a time of explorations north and east (how vast and gorgeous the land Ohio appeared; a whisper at the time, but a screaming maelstrom now—_it will be yours_.)

They are words with a futile mission.

"I'm not a child anymore," Alfred says definitely. "I am not _your_ child."

The young blonde man is certainly a son of Europe no longer. His people (_his_, not Arthur's) are something of another breed. They are hard workers, laborers of the land and forever optimistic. Their minds buzz with ideas forged by ancient philosophers and contemporary thinkers. They are a culmination of the persecuted, the undereducated, the trash of Europe. Irish, German, Catholic, Protestant—it didn't matter.

Life is always better here. Life is full of opportunity here. And if it didn't work the first time, there is always the chance to pick up, move and start afresh. Always.

They come together to create something better, something amazing, something…

American.  
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.

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_7. The sands of time slip away faster from those who hold tighter_

The cold bayonet's tip presses against his vocal chords again.

Arthur sighs. The boy—the blonde haired, blue eyed boy—is still that, a boy. A foolish boy with foolish ideals with foolish hopes. A foolish boy who knows nothing of the world. A foolish, foolish, stupid boy who just doesn't know anything at all and needs him--_needs_ his older brother, needs his Guardian and Protector…

It isn't supposed to happen like this. He isn't supposed to _Name_ a Nation. Nations are to Unname themselves to be with _him_. This…

This is actually happening…

And there is still that feral desire in Alfred's eyes. He wants this more than anything, has even killed for it…

.

_._

_8. Say Goodbye While You're Still on Speaking Terms_

"You still got a lot to learn, kid," Arthur says softly, hoping his words will be lost in the dying wind and splattering rain.

"I'm not a kid anymore," comes the even voice (when had the pitch dropped and why hadn't he noticed before?) The bayonet rises, pressing into Arthur's neck. A false move and he would have slit his own throat.

"So. Say. My. Name." Alfred breathes through his teeth, keeping his arm steady despite his fatigue. He can't kill him. Can't. He needs that Name to be. He needs England, his brother, to say it. Needs it to be solidified.

Besides, he can't kill his caretaker, regardless of his stubbornness.

.

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_9. What Do You Have To Loose When You've Lost?_

Gravity finally wins. Arthur's knees hit the mud with a muffled splash. Arthur wonders why such a mighty Nation as he doesn't make a greater sound.

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_10. He Still Sees His Caretaker as a God_

Alfred pulls the bayonet back, stunned to see the mighty warrior fall. Mouth stands agape. He is petrified by reality.

_It is finally happening_.

_.  
_

_._

_.  
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_11. Let Go of What's Not Yours_

England keeps his head lowered, eyes averting the b—no. No longer a boy.

It has taken him until now to see it. To have it really settle in his psyche. The Unnamed before him, the Unnamed who has defeated the world's greatest army and navy in the worldis no longer a boy.

And it was about time he got his Name.

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_12._

He doesn't feel anything when he's about to say It. He doesn't feel the hot tears run down his cheeks as he finally _accepts _it. He doesn't feel something inside, behind his gut twist and tear and _break_ (no one before has declared independence, but he doesn't feel special knowing he's the first to feel this pain). He doesn't feel it as it resonates through his limbs and makes the cuts on his face and scars on his back, side, arms, legs, feet, hands feel like feather kisses.

"You, the Republic of the United States of America…"

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_13._

His Name. His Name. His _Name._

There's a lifting sort of feeling in his chest, by his heart. It beats fuller-- a resounding _lub-dub_, _lub-dub_. He can feel it beating, throbbing in his fingertips, his toes, his face goddamn it! He smiles because he's never felt this _alive_ before. He smiles because he knows what he feels inside--his soul, Arthur once said--is the soul of _his _people. They are _his_ and he's almost a country. He can't stop smiling. He waits for Arthur, Britain, to finish.

"…Are a free and sovereign nation."

Now he's free.


End file.
